Take Care
by Palaras Andhek
Summary: Set during Act I. Isabela tries very hard not to take advantage of a drunken Hawke. Unfortunately, Hawke isn't making it easy on her. F!Hawke/Isabela, pre-romance.


_Disclaimer: Bioware owns all, of course._

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><p><em>Something more. <em>With Hawke, there had always been.

She was a friend, true, and had been from the beginning. Warmer than the likes of Fenris or Anders. Principled on a level that damn near rivaled Aveline. As clever and good-spirited as Varric. As endearing as Merrill. It was no surprise that Isabela had taken to her from the day they'd met.

Yet, there was something else present in their friendship, looming; something she could scarcely admit. _Something more._

She was still telling herself it was the sexual attraction.

Isabela watched the apostate from where she stood by her makeshift, tavern table, glass of rum suspended halfway to her mouth. The rest of their companions had already left, a half-asleep Merrill being the last to make her departure just five minutes prior, with a protective Varric in her stead. It seemed Hawke would be the last to leave tonight, or, rather, this morning. A satisfied smirk hitched at the corner of Isabela's waiting mouth before allowing her liquor to finish its ascent. Hawke was almost always the last to leave.

She turned her glass down on the table, insatiably considering the last quarter of the bottle before setting that down, as well. She turned her attentions back to the wide-eyed mage, ever-oblivious to the probing gaze of her friend, as she sat upon the hearth nearest the stairwell. Back to the wall, she spread her long, lean legs before her, hands placed limply in her lap. The fire cracked, projecting a flickering glow over the left side of the apostate's pale face, painting her equally pale locks a faint ocher. Her green eyes shimmered, caught in a criss-crossed play of shadow and flame, staring wistfully beyond the walls of the tavern. Her brow knitted ever slightly, seeming not to be thinking of unpleasant things, but thinking, perhaps, just a bit too much. Unaware that the sound escaped her lips, Isabela sighed fondly at the display and sashayed towards the woman with a cheeky grin.

She stood before the mage with a raised brow, one hand placed low on her hip. Despite their close proximity, Hawke did not seem to notice her, as her eyes remained rapt with far-away concentration. The pirate narrowed her own amber orbs, tapping her boot against the protesting floorboards for a moment before conceding to take a seat beside the other woman. She scooted in close, placing her hand upon the mage's thigh, with a mildly incredulous smile. Finally, Hawke turned to regard her slowly, face flushed and breath emitting the bitter aroma of alcohol. Far too much, Isabela realized with a small shake of her head, as the other's mouth split softly open in a crooked smile. A piercing dimple carved itself into her right cheek, burning crimson from a mixture of rum and ale. Nevertheless, her brow remained slightly furled, the remnants of her previous thoughts lingering behind emerald eyes.

Isabela knew she ought to say something, perhaps even offer to take the apostate home; however, she yielded to her own amusement, waiting for Hawke to speak first.

"Your face is moving," the mage said softly, after a long moment. The fire popped once more, throwing shadows rapidly over her face. Isabela chuckled.

"Is it?"

"Yeah." Hawke leaned into the rogue, seeming unsteady. "I don't know if you're aware, but... I drank an awful lot tonight."

"No kidding," the pirate laughed again, and caught herself squeezing the woman's thigh. Hawke either didn't notice, or didn't mind. Isabela suspected the former. Either way, she didn't stop herself, feeling the heat pooling in her palm. The apostate was beyond drunk – completely sloshed, more like it – and she had no intention of taking advantage of her. Even she, in all her depravity, was above doing that to a _friend._ Regardless, she found no compunctions in admiring the woman, and didn't suspect Hawke would either.

She finished her thought. "It's fairly obvious, sweet thing. Maybe we should get you home?" Hawke grunted into the rogue's shoulder, nestling further against her arm. With another chuckle, Isabela gave the mage's thigh one final squeeze – this one much more noticeable, as Hawke's muscles twitched beneath the touch – and stood. "C'mon, I'll walk you-"

As she turned, the other woman grabbed her wrist, clutching her just a bit tighter than she'd intended. The pirate felt a sudden warmth, low in her stomach, but pushed it from her mind, accrediting it to the liquor. She looked down, first to the hand grasping her wrist, and noted how sharply the alabaster complexion contrasted with her tanned skin. Then, she raised her gaze slightly, to find the mage peering at her, brow furrowed deeper, lips subtly parted, troubled over the words braced over the tip of her tongue. At this countenance, Isabela had to take pause.

"What is it," she asked finally, watching as the apostate's hand slipped lower, fitting snugly into her warm palm.

"Well…" Hawke averted her gaze bashfully, taking sudden interest in her lap. "I don't know. I guess I'd rather not go home." She met Isabela's gaze once again, taking her hand back as her already burning cheeks turning a shade deeper. The pirate grinned curiously. In an attempt to quell her embarrassment, an explanation came spilling hastily forth. "I mean, I just… I've had such a good night. And I know that if I go home now, it'll be ruined. It's been nothing but stress there, lately. Carver's been up my ass everyday about the damned Deep Roads. Mother's been crying all the time. I always end up yelling. And I bet you anything, if I walk through that door _now_, like _this,_ that filthy wretch Gamlen will be making passes at me. He's ridiculous – as if someone like _me_ – family relation notwithstanding – would ever go to bed with someone like _him._"

She ceased her rambling only when she felt the need to take a deep breath. Isabela remained grinning the entire time, brow raised as she contemplated just how red the poor woman's face could turn. Each time she felt certain those pale cheeks had reached their darkest shade, the apostate met Isabela's eyes once again, the crimson deepening instantly. She was amused, to say the least.

"I'd just like to have one night, completely stress free. That's all," she mumbled, shrugging awkwardly. In spite of her own amusement, Isabela _could_ discern the poorly-hidden distress buried in Hawke's eyes, and in truth, it bothered her. Quite a bit, actually. Still, she couldn't help but tease the mage, just a little. The opportunity was too good to pass up.

"You know, if you wanted sex, you could've just said so." Hawke's eyes rounded immediately, and she shook her head in an exaggerated, drunken manner.

"No, Isabela… it's not that! Not that I would mind, but-" She palmed herself in the face, cursing. "Shit, I mean – not like this. I just-" The pirate was biting her tongue in an attempt to steel herself against her laughter. To see Hawke, their "mighty," de facto leader, sputtering embarrassedly with her face in her hand – it was priceless. And also rather revealing. The mention of sex had her babbling like a nervous virgin; however, it didn't necessarily seem that she was opposed to the idea. Anxious over it, yes, but not opposed. _That_ truly gave the rogue quite a bit to consider.

"Hawke… I was kidding." She raised her hands in an attempt to halt the apostate. "Well, not totally. But I know what you meant. If you want, you can stay with me tonight."

"I can?" The blonde's face was abruptly suffused in relief, her brow unfurling completely. Isabela nodded, rolling her eyes and offering the woman her hands for support.

"Yes, Hawke. You can. Now, here – let me help you up." Gripping the apostate's palms in her own, Isabela lifted, pulling the woman easily from the hearth. However, in doing so, she'd overestimated Hawke's balance. As the other came up, she rocked forward on her heels, the weight of gravity just a bit too daunting in her inebriated state. She allowed the momentum of the lift to take her, falling forward and catching herself just a fraction short of crashing into the pirate completely.

Isabela held her breath for a moment, eye-to-eye with her _friend_, and all too aware of the meager inch now separating their lips. No, she would not take advantage of Hawke. But it would consume an awful lot of restraint to do so, and damnit, the mage was going to owe her for her hospitality – more than _just_ a bottle of rum this time. She would be expecting a night at the Blooming Rose, all expenses paid, as well.

"_Whoa."_ Hawke burst out in a fit of giggles, pulling back and straightening her wobbly posture with Isabela's help.

"You might want to be careful," the pirate warned, plastering a grin over her face. However, she could not deny the very pesky warmth now burgeoning in her belly.

"Yeah… good idea. You know, it's kinda funny," the apostate continued, as Isabela guided her towards her room, keeping a firm grip on her arm. "Everything seems much drunker now that I'm not sitting still."

"That tends to happen. However, in your case, it's probably not such a good thing," reaching her door, the rogue kicked it open lightly, "'cause you were pretty shit-faced, even from down there."

"Yeah… I _know_," the mage giggled again, leaning against the wall. Isabela shut and locked the door behind her, before walking over to her desk to retrieve an extra candle. She'd kept a lantern blazing near her bed, but felt that the added light would be necessary under current circumstances. The illumination of that single flame, flickering by her bedside, seemed just a bit too _sensuous._ And she was trying _not_ to ravish the woman who would be in bed beside her tonight. Might as well make it a little easier on herself. However, as she turned to Hawke, requesting that she light the candle, she realized that the apostate would not be extending the same courtesy.

"What're you doing over there," she asked, knowing damn well what Hawke was doing – it couldn't have been more obvious. She was taking off her pants, albeit, struggling a bit with the action.

"Getting ready for bed," the blonde replied innocently, fumbling over her belt and buttons. "It's… a lot harder than it normally is though," she murmured, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Why do they gotta make pants so damn complicated these days?" If she wasn't so busy contesting her own arousal, Isabela would've laughed at the silliness of the comment.

"I don't know, Hawke," she answered lamely, moving to stand before the mage and making quick work of her belt buckle. "I don't really bother with pants, do I?"

"No, you don't." Hawke glanced shamelessly down at the pirate's legs for a long moment, before again meeting her eyes with an inquisitive expression. "Is that why you don't wear any? Too much work?"

"Part of the reason, I suppose." Isabela shrugged, taking a few steps back when she realized her hand had unconsciously lingered over the hem of Hawke's pants. Thank the Maker the woman was an oblivious drunk. "You know," she began, deciding to busy herself with readying the bed, "you should try it sometime."

"Not wearing pants?"

"Yeah… might be a good look for you," she said, smirking. She could hear the soft swoosh of fabric and the clanking of a belt as the apostate's pants bunched at the floor. Allowing herself a small reward for present self-control, Isabela turned to watch Hawke step clumsily out of her pant legs.

"Yeah, I don't know, Isabela. I think my legs might be a bit too pale for that." Appraising herself, the mage placed her palms over her thighs. Indeed, her legs were pale, but not unattractively so. They were the fine color of porcelain – creamy, long, and lean. The pirate would be lying if she said she'd never thought about feeling them, _tasting_ them. Because she had. Frequently, in fact; whenever she allowed her mind to wander in the apostate's company.

"I don't think _anyone_ would complain, sweet thing."

"Really?" In an effort to better judge the appeal of her complexion, Hawke propped one foot on the pirate's desk chair, running her hand down her fully exposed thigh in a manner that was, somehow, both entirely platonic and maddeningly sensual. Isabela's gaze followed the action, and she bit back a groan as her eyes found the outline of black smallclothes, peeking out from the ends of the woman's tunic. The thin, dark fabric stood out starkly against Hawke's flesh, curving tauntingly over her bottom before losing itself beneath the mage's top. The display was simultaneously revealing too much, and _absolutely_ too little.

No, Hawke was not going to make this easy on her _at all_. And for as much as she wished to "punish" her for such teasing, Isabela knew the woman was too drunk, too ingenuous to have any idea what she was doing to the pirate in that moment.

"That's pretty pasty looking, isn't it?" Isabela heard the question, but couldn't bring herself to answer. She only continued to stare.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. "Hawke, you know… you're making this whole us-not-having-drunken-sex-thing pretty difficult."

"Huh?" The apostate gaped at her, confused for a good ten seconds before her eyes darted down to her exposed thigh, and she blushed. "Shit!" She planted her foot firmly upon the ground, palming herself in the forehead once more. "Shit. Yeah…" Hawke's eyes roved the room embarrassedly for a moment before she looked to Isabela again, her gaze now glinting with a mixture of uncertainty and mischief. "I guess I need to learn to keep my sexy in check?" In spite of her frustrations, the rogue burst out laughing.

"Oh, yes. You really do." Foregoing the second candle, she set it back down on her desk, taking Hawke by the arm and leading her towards the bed. "You know, you're _really_ gonna owe me for tonight."

"Am I," the mage asked wistfully, smirking a bit as she crawled on top of the lumpy mattress. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable thing Isabela had ever slept on, but it was preferable to floors and ditches. And, as a matter of fact, it was particularly cozy when one had a belly full of liquor – a fact the pirate knew well, and that Hawke seemed to be appreciating in this instance.

"Yes, you certainly are. Before, I would have demanded a night at the Blooming Rose, fully paid. But now… it's looking more like a week." The mage chuckled, rolling over onto the other side of the bed and burying her face into one of Isabela's pillows.

"A week?"

"Yes. A week." The pirate grinned, taking a seat on the bed beside her.

"I don't know if I can afford that. I'm just a poor Fereldan refugee, after all. Remember?" She yawned, squeezing her pillow. "Maybe though, after I get back from the expedition, I'll be rich enough to pay you up through a whole _month._ Wouldn't that be something?"

"What's this 'maybe' business? I'm expecting nothing less from you, sweet thing."

"I'll do what I can," the apostate replied, staring up at Isabela through increasingly heavy eyelids. The pirate could practically see the energy draining from her face, as Hawke finally succumbed to her alcohol-induced exhaustion. "There's still time to change your mind, you know, if you want to join us. You'll get a nice cut of whatever coin we find. I promise."

Isabela had mulled over this very proposition many times in the past month or so. With Hawke closing in on the fifty sovereigns required of her to join Bartrand on his expedition, the mage had begun making preparations. Chiefly, she was attempting to sort out who would be accompanying her. Obviously, Varric would be joining, but according to the dwarf, they would be able to take two other companions, as well. Foremost, he had suggested they ought to take Anders along with them, as Hawke was not versed in curative magic, and their need for healing during the journey was almost guaranteed. Anders had at first been reluctant in returning to the Deep Roads, given his less than pleasant experiences there during his time as a Grey Warden; however, persuading him had been as simple as Hawke asking nicely. In Isabela's opinion it was rather humorous how utterly besotted the healer was with Hawke, and how little the other mage seemed to notice.

Aside from Anders, Hawke and Varric had agreed that with three ranged fighters in their immediate group, they would also need a blade on their side. Aveline had been out of the question, as she was unable to step away from her guard duties for an extended period. Carver had jumped at the opportunity, of course, but Hawke had yet to give him a straight answer. In his opinion, his sister was merely being stubborn, attempting to hog all the glory the expedition could bring; however, he still believed he had a fighting chance at convincing her. Truth was, after discussing Carver's possible accompaniment with their mother, the apostate _knew_ she couldn't take him. When she planned on informing him of this fact definitively was anyone's guess. But until then, he would be acting like a nonstop prick.

That only left Fenris and Isabela, and out of the two, there was no doubt who Hawke favored. She and the elf were not completely averse to each other's company as they had once been – most of that aversion coming from Fenris and his disdain for mages – and in fact, they'd even achieved some sort of tenuous friendship. No doubt he would have Hawke's back down in the Deep Roads if she only asked. Still, she preferred the presence of a good friend – someone who would have her back _and_ make her laugh when things got too stressful. Ergo the pirate.

Unfortunately (and she would not admit this directly), there was just something about the prospect of being trapped in caves underground for weeks on end that gave Isabela the shivers. The promise of coin was tempting, but even the thrill of it seemed to pale before her apprehension. Really, she could find coin anywhere. She was a pirate, after all – she had a knack for that sort of thing. She didn't need to subject herself to weeks inside of dingy caverns to attain it. Hawke and Varric had each promised to bring her back a piece of treasure, anyhow. Furthermore, if they _did_ end up rolling in coin upon their return, it wouldn't take much persuasion on the pirate's part to secure a fully paid bar tab at the Hanged Man. All she had to do was ask Hawke. The apostate's gratuitous generosity could be aggravating, but she certainly did benefit from it, when need be.

"A tempting offer, Hawke, truly-"

"There's always temptation where coin is concerned, isn't there?"

Isabela winked. "Oh, you're learning! Is it possible that I'm rubbing off on you?"

"You'd like _that_. Wouldn't you?" The rogue certainly didn't miss the sexual implications of the statement, as she began laughing softly, Hawke following soon after. It was mirthful – the shared laughter; the "affection," if you could really call it that – which Isabela wasn't sure you could. She was… gentle with Hawke, as she was with Merrill. She cared for both women as _friends_, which was foreign in and of itself. But she knew she didn't care for them in the same way.

The mage rolled onto her stomach, snuggling her cheek into the pillow as she faced Isabela. She yawned once more, her features screwing up slightly in the gesture before they relaxed into a half-conscious countenance. Hawke was calm, the pirate noted – a fact which, for some reason, she derived satisfaction from. The woman's naturally soft features had settled into a state that was downright delicate, perhaps even breakable. That also made the pirate nervous, and she couldn't understand why.

As the blonde drifted silently into slumber, Isabela found herself unusually contemplative, and returned to previous thoughts. What made Hawke so different from the likes of Merrill, or Varric, or any of her other friends? Honestly, she was still getting used to the fact that she could so easily consider them "friends" – real friends – in the first place. Regardless, they _were_ her friends, and out of them all, Hawke was probably her best.

She had some trouble understanding this. The apostate was fun, enjoyed good humor, and had an inborn desire for adventure. She wasn't particularly mischievous, but had a knack for mischief, nonetheless, and was particularly quick-witted. To boot, she was damn beautiful. It was no surprise that Isabela was attracted to these qualities, in every sense of the word. What _was_ surprising was that this attraction came so easily, in spite of the qualities that were, in the pirate's opinion, less than attractive. Hawke was, for instance, virtuous, and eager to bust her ass for the sake of complete strangers. She could be naïve, bordering on stupid, in her adamant belief that common decency existed in all things. She tried hard to avoid breaking laws if she could (though Isabela had found this irritating quality could be "corrected" with a few drinks).

Hawke was good – too good to be hanging around with someone like Isabela, at the very least. However, Hawke also didn't seem to give a shit about this fact. She was the best of all of them – even better than Aveline – but was too modest to admit it. She admitted they were something of a ragtag group, but they were her friends, nevertheless. And if nothing else, Hawke believed in her friends.

Truth be told, Isabela couldn't remember the last time someone had believed in her quite so much, and so genuinely. It made her feel things. Mostly lust, or endearment. Some… other things. Maybe. But…

_No._ Such thinking could only be the result of her sexual frustrations, and nothing more. She wasn't nearly drunk _enough_ and was in need of a good lay. If there was something else there with Hawke, it was simply curiosity – the regular questions. She looked like she would be good in bed. She looked like she had stamina, _power._ Isabela merely wanted to know if these things were true; wanted to know how well the mage's impressive energy translated between the battle and her bed sheets.

Hawke stirred slightly beside her, running a heavy hand over her face. She tried to brush an unruly strand of blonde hair clumsily out of her eyes, to no avail. Her nose wrinkled under the tickle of hair. Isabela sighed, not wanting to admit just how adorable it was.

After a few more attempts at pushing the stubborn lock back into place, only succeeding in smacking herself on the cheek, a faint smile tugged at the corner of the pirate's mouth. Without acknowledging what she was doing, Isabela's hand had descended upon the woman's face, stopping only when she realized how tender the favor was. There were much better ways in which she could be touching the apostate, and with some persistence, she knew she would enjoy them all soon. For now, she compromised to allow herself this one caring gesture.

Her fingertips brushed over undeniably soft skin as she pushed the strand of hair away, tucking it gently behind Hawke's ear. She lingered a few seconds over the contact before removing her hand and setting it back in her lap, turning her eyes to the door. Her chest was tighter than it had been a moment ago. She didn't like that.

Perhaps ten seconds later she heard a small puff of air escape the apostate's lips, and dropped her gaze. Hawke's eyes flickered twice, rapidly, beneath her closed lids. A fleeting moment of anxiety gripped Isabela before the other woman's lips parted slightly, a low and weary murmur escaping.

"_You're a good friend, Isabela."_

Her brow furrowed as she waited for Hawke's eyes to cease their fluttering movements, just a moment later. Those words had left warmth spreading through her belly once again; but also, warmth in her chest. It had been a long time since anyone had told her that she was a _"good friend"_. Even longer since anyone had actually meant it. But for some reason, coming from Hawke, drunk or not, it just seemed to mean _more._

Her natural response, given the mage's lack of consciousness, would have been nothing at all. If she had been awake, and perhaps, someone else, Isabela would have made a sarcastic or otherwise lascivious remark.

As it was, the only words she could bring herself to mutter were a quiet, _"Thanks, Hawke."_

After a few moments of lengthy silence, she pulled off her bandana, raking a hand tensely through her hair, eyes fixed once again upon the locked door. With her other hand she began to drum uncomfortably over her stomach, suddenly overtaken by a thrum of impatience whose origins she could not trace. She gave Hawke a sidelong glance – the woman was sleeping soundly now, her pink lips adorning a delicate smile. Isabela made herself look away. Frowning, she licked her lips and stood from the bed, rapt with the sudden and very acute urge to finish the bottle of rum she had left unattended at her table downstairs.

She intended to walk out the door without a backwards glance, but before shutting it behind her, she hesitated. Glancing one final time at Hawke, she shook her head, a tiny smirk curling over her lips. Knowing the other woman could not hear her, she uttered quietly, "Oh, Hawke. I know you're not listening, but… I'm _really_ going to need that month at the Rose."

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><p><em>AN: This was just a little idea that popped into my head a few days ago, and I felt the need to scribble down. I certainly did miss writing Isabela/F!Hawke. In case you were wondering, this Hawke is the same as the one that was used in my fic _Aya.

_Also, this story is titled after a song, as well. "Take Care" by Beach House._

_Reviews are, of course, always appreciated. I hope you enjoyed!_


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